


Better  Than Chocolate

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Second War with Voldemort, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-25
Updated: 2008-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry's in the Infirmary - again! - and Ron comes to visit. Set in some undetermined year at Hogwarts when hunting Horcruxes didn't get in the way of Quidditch.





	Better  Than Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Flagstones.

 

High gothic windows with a lead web dividing the ink-black sky: framing some stars, crossing out others. A vaulted ceiling with a reach so high it fades to infinity above two rows of beds, most of them empty, their white sheets precisely squared, a little lighter than the dark, like tombs in a cemetery.

 

Harry woke to a silence made deeper by the loud ticking of a clock and to a feeling of emptiness in his chest like misplaced hunger. Without his glasses, the barn owl sweeping past the window might have been a lost soul fleeing from its death: its melancholy hooting the weeping of a broken heart.

 

There was some pain but it was diffuse, pulsing though his chest and limbs. He remembered falling, remembered the rush of air and the scream and the panic, but nothing more. Green eyes blinked, stared into the impenetrable spaces of the roof above, then closed. The real pain was not in his body.

 

The real pain had been with him many months already, again like hunger. He sighed, a long, trembling sigh underwritten by the threat of tears pressing behind his eyes. He would never allow those tears an exit. The thing he remembered most, before the fall, was seeing Ron in his red and gold: Ron’s face etched with determination in front of the three hoops. And if Harry had shed some tears in the dark they would have been tears of yearning and frustration. Inside his head, from a place as blank and empty as the void above him, an insistent voice came: Just tell him how you feel, Harry. Tell him. Hermione had said this. Before Harry knew he was feeling anything at all, Hermione had said this to him.

 

The sheets were cool and tight over his chest and legs. They smelt of soap and earth, and under them, inside, he was warm and coddled by their fierce kind of comfort. It annoyed him that Ron was his first thought when he woke, yet the strangeness of waking in the infirmary and the powerful privacy of the vast and shadow-filled stones prompted a stiffening in his groin, tight against the sheets.

 

His arms, lying across the covers, white on white, prickled with gooseflesh. He moved them under the blankets. Without thought, he felt the undulating landscape of his chest and brushed flat fingertips across his nipples. Still with his eyes closed, seeing nothing but tracer-fire sparking purple and green, he pressed those nipples until they sank inwards and made his spine shiver. He trailed his fingertips over the concave plane of his stomach and breathed deeply of the antiseptic air; he felt soft skin rise and then sink, soften and tighten with the breath. He tangled his fingers in the nest of satin-soft black hair, straight and fine like fur between his legs, and curled his toes.

 

Outside, in the distant dark something howled, long and pained, and the moon pushed through clouds, silvering their edges. Harry opened his eyes at the sound, just as his long fingers found his cock and began pushing back the loose skin, moulding and gently pressing the head. He became aware, with a start, of a figure beside him in the dark, slumped in a chair and with shoulders rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His hand fell away. In the dark, his face flushed.

 

“Ron?” he said in a whisper. The figure beside him roused slowly, breathed deeply and stretched.

“Hi, Harry,” said Ron, also quietly, respecting the hallowed sense of hospitals and healing. "How you feeling?” Harry looked away, though Ron could not have seen his eyes, nor the blush on his cheeks.

 

“Okay I think. I ache a bit.” Ron shuffled his chair closer to the bed, as though afraid of being overheard, and leaned in. “Is there anyone else in here?” asked Harry.

 

“No, just you and me mate,” said Ron. He lit a small candle with his wand and the tiny glow warmed a small arc around the bed. The rest of the Infirmary sank into a yet more cavernous black.

 

“So why are we whispering?”

 

“Madam Pomfrey,” said Ron nodding his head in the direction of the office. “She told me to go to bed a while back. I thought I’d stay though.” There was a little embarrassment in Ron’s voice. “You know, didn’t want you waking up in here on your own and all that.”

 

“What happened?” said Harry, not sure what elemental danger he might have faced and now couldn’t remember.

 

“Dementor,” said Ron, suddenly glum. “That’s what Dumbledore said anyway. We couldn’t see, you were so high up.” Harry felt again the gripping sense of empty hunger in his chest.

 

“Yeah, it was,” said Harry, noticing the half-eaten bar of chocolate by the bed.

 

Harry shifted a little in the bed under sheets which now felt constricting and heavy where they had been cool and sexy a minute before. All he could think was that Ron was too close; blood rushed through his cheeks. An awkward pause slipped between them.

 

“Harry, there’s something I…” Ron faltered, brushed his fingers roughly through his hair and thumbed the side of his nose. He shifted on his seat, leaning still closer, speaking with more hush in his voice. “Hermione said…” Harry’s guts shook inside him, everything in him prepared to clench into a scream. Instead he looked away, a small whimper escaped his lips. “What’s the matter?” said Ron, taking quick advantage of the distraction.

 

“Nothing,” said Harry. He tried to move up in the bed, as suddenly lying down was too vulnerable. “I’m just uncomfortable.”

 

“What? Do you want to sit up?” Harry nodded. “Here, let me help.” Ron stood up and leant over Harry’s prone body. Gently he put large hands at Harry’s side, on bare skin, just under Harry’s armpits and while Harry pushed a little on the mattress, Ron lifted him back and up on the bed. Harry was surprised at his own weakness, but felt strength pouring back into him from where Ron held him. Ron handled Harry like a rare magical object, his strong grip was soft, long fingers falling into the grooves of ribs: cool on warm skin. When Ron set Harry down, their faces were a breath from each other and Ron leaned again as though falling, their mouths opened and the night closed in around them as their tongues touched to lips and teeth. Strung like wire, Harry almost choked into Ron’s mouth and Ron snapped back, as though bitten.

 

“Shit! Shit! Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I mean…” Ron’s nervous denials tumbled out of him, his whispers now hoarse, his eyes flicking, terrorised, between Harry and Madam Pomfrey‘s office door.

 

“Ron,” said Harry. “Ron!” he hissed and Ron’s babbling stopped. There was a stillness in the huge room into which their words evaporated. Harry was sitting on a high wall; he wanted to jump and feel the air rush past him. Blood hummed in his ears. Everything seemed stopped, waiting for him to give the tiniest push and make the walls fall. He listened to Ron’s breath a moment in the dark.

 

“Ron, do that again,” Harry swallowed hard. "Please?” Harry jumped off the wall. The rush of air was Ron’s movement and breath, spilling towards him, the jolt of landing was the slow slump of the mattress as Ron moved to sit on the bed. Ron sat sideways, awkward, leaning on one arm.

 

“You’re sure?” whispered Ron.

 

“Bloody Hell, Ron, yes, kiss me!”

Lips touched lightly like leaves falling to earth, soft mouths brushing over each other, barely coming together at all. A hand lifted and was touched to a face, downy hair made skin like satin, fingers slipped along a jaw and chin. In the space between lips, tongues just met, tip to tip, tasting and retreating. Ron tilted his head, placed a kiss on Harry’s nose, then on the sensitive skin of his top lip, on his chin, then he brushed Harry’s lips again. Harry lifted up to meet the kiss and in the dark took Ron’s face in his hands, feeling like a blind man for landmarks in a confusing new place. A fierce and sudden draught guttered the candle and Harry moaned as Ron’s tongue pushed inside his mouth and all the world was suddenly bright in the wet heat of the kiss. Ron’s mouth tasted of chocolate and Christmas. Strength and light was flooding into Harry. Not breathing, burning his lungs with drowning, Harry pushed back and their mouths opened wide. Wet flowed over Harry’s chin. Ron’s warm-blanket smell filled Harry’s head. He had never felt so close to another human being before. In the dark he pushed his fingers into Ron’s hair and pulled their faces hard together. Ron, still awkwardly leaning, fell towards him and without breaking their lips apart lay on Harry’s chest, his hands coming to rest at Harry’s naked shoulders, stroking and pressing.

 

Harry's heart was pushing the blood through him like thunder. The sensation was familiar but he had no time to think on how close desire was to terror.

 

Their lips parted a moment, a string of saliva stretched, broke, and fell on Harry’s neck.

 

“I never thought you…” Harry couldn’t breathe to speak a sentence. Ron shrugged.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

It was difficult to kiss whilst smiling, but that didn't stop them trying. A smile and a laugh and a sob all mixed together and Harry felt the edge of hysteria slip back and forth in his chest.

 

Desire flared and a sudden seriousness fell between them. Ron lifted and rolled the soft sheet from Harry’s chest. Harry felt cool air flow over his naked skin. Ron’s lips pressed gentle kisses on his shoulder and collar bone. Harry grunted: surprised. An electric buzz licked through Harry’s nerves and he put his fingers through Ron’s hair, tugging gently down, holding Ron’s open mouth on his nipple.

 

Ron’s hands slipped over ribs and soft bumps and tightened around Harry’s waist. Harry lifted from the bed to press his body into Ron’s, into the soft woollen jumper and the feel of Ron’s tightened chest heaving behind it.

 

There was a shifting on the bed. Clumsily manoeuvring two bodies together, they bumped and knocked each other until Ron was on top of Harry, his head still on Harry’s naked chest, kissing, licking slowly. Harry’s arms wrapped around freckled shoulders, legs twisted around the small of Ron‘s back. Through the sheet, Harry’s cock pressed like a spike into Ron’s stomach. When the sheet slipped to tangle around Harry’s knees, Ron moved downwards and pressed his wet lips to the tender, giving flesh of Harry’s stomach. Harry let his head fall back on the pillow, eyes rolling to the dark above. All the air in his lungs flowed outwards; there was a rasp in his throat as he tried to draw it back.

 

Two bodies folded into the crumpled sheeting, crawling with the candle’s flicker, luminous in the moonlight.

 

Both of them were trembling as Ron’s kisses touched the tip of Harry’s cock. Harry felt Ron’s ragged breath flow over his erection and into the folds and valleys of his groin.

 

And then Ron placed his mouth, experimentally, over the end of Harry’s cock. Wet cock and wet mouth met and mingled. Harry bucked involuntarily, close to the kind of tears that only come when frustration is untwisted inside. His legs spread wider as if on an automatic spring and he put his hand down to Ron’s mouth, sliding a long finger inside and then taking his cock by its root and pointing it upwards, holding it for Ron.

 

Not knowing quite what to do, Ron sucked and moved his tongue over and around Harry's cock inside his mouth. Harry's free hand clawed at the sheets. By a slow process of unspoken feedback, Ron learnt what to do.

 

Harry wanted to speak, he wanted to howl and push himself deep into his best friend’s throat,  but the words and noises remained trapped inside. He felt them speak inside his chest then dissipate and flood into his skin every time Ron lunged forwards. Wet noises rose from between his legs. Reaching down, Harry gripped Ron’s shoulder and grappled with the thick jumper. Somehow, with much twisting and arm-stretching, Harry managed to pull the jumper and Ron’s shirt off him. Ron only allowed Harry’s cock out of his mouth for a few moments in the whole manoeuvre. When Ron relaxed onto Harry, his bare torso tucked between Harry’s legs, the touch of cool skin together nearly sent Harry over the edge. He gritted his teeth and his breath came in short, rasping grunts. Ron looked up.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Gods yes,” said Harry panting. “I can’t… I mean, I want… fuck Ron, I’ve wanted something like this for so long.”

 

“Me too,” said Ron, his blushing going unnoticed in the dark.

 

“Let me do it to you.”

 

Ron stepped away from the bed. Nervously he looked around as though the whole of Gryffindor might be hiding behind the curtains, then he fumbled open the chunky belt around his waist, his jeans fell and he stepped out of them. Inexperience was fortuitous. Confused and overwhelmed with nerves and desire, Ron lay down the wrong way on the bed. Ignoring the aching protest of his bruises, Harry twisted down in the bed a little and found his face against the swelling cotton of Ron’s briefs. He pushed his face into Ron’s crotch and smelt the fresh, clean smell of laundry and soapy skin: he felt the heat and rigidity of Ron’s cock straining through the fabric and pressed his lips and cheek into it.

 

Ron again took Harry into his mouth and seemed, in this new position, to swallow him whole. Harry’s body quivered and shook against Ron and with renewed urgency Harry slipped the waistband of Ron’s briefs down and Ron’s cock, caught for just a moment, sprung out and up and hit Harry in the face. With no thought but a kind of hunger he’d never known before, Harry engulfed Ron’s cock. The skin slipped back in his mouth and Harry’s tonsils banged down on the tight-skinned head. Ron’s hands gripped suddenly, tight and painful on Harry’s arse, but the pain was only a welcome spur. The taste, heat and feel of Ron’s soft-hard skin in his mouth and the scent from Ron’s most intimate places overwhelmed Harry and he feasted on it.

 

Two thin striplings of pale skin and long plastic limbs writhed together on the bed. Lost in a flood of new sensations and abandoned to drives which churned inside both of them, they flipped over and over. One now on top fucking down into the other’s face, then over again.  Moonlight shone on their moist skin like sunlight on snow: they glowed. The night outside stopped, still and silent, in awe of their lust. On their sides, their legs curled up to make a ball of two, Ron’s fingers strayed between Harry’s parted cheeks. He pressed the wrinkles of Harry’s sphincter and Harry’s squeal was panic and burning desire all muffled around Ron’s cock. When Ron’s finger pressed inside, Harry felt snakes coil themselves round his body and tighten somewhere at the base of his spine.

Something built in the damp heated space between them. As one felt the tight surge coming, so he sucked in the other more deeply, which caused the same urgency again and so on, building and building… They both knew what was about to happened. Neither stopped for a moment, pushing deeper, swallowing deeper. Then they both flooded into each other's mouths, pumping hot liquid salt. Both gulped and swallowed and drank eagerly from the other. Shuddering came and went through them both and tongues kept probing, mouths still suckled until their cocks began to loosen and lie more heavily in their mouths. They lay back a little, heads on each other's thin thighs, faces still intimately close to lounging cocks.

 

“Harry?” said Ron.

 

“Shhh…” said Harry.

 

It seemed hours passed. The tall row of windows leaned over them and made the huge spaces smaller, more comforting. An owl passed, its wing-beats as silent as the slow closing of eyelids.

 

Some time in the night, unheeded, Madam Pomfrey appeared by the bed, potion bottle and spoon in her hand. She stopped dead, then rolled her eyes. There was something so tender in the way white limbs folded into each other on the white sheets. Madam Pomfrey was a woman of the world and nothing much surprised her anymore, but there was something beautiful about these two like this, something beyond grubby adolescent fumbling: this was Harry and Ron, this was the way it was supposed to be. Shrugging, but feeling unexpectedly moved, she stepped quietly away and returned to her office.


End file.
